


Unexpected Expectations

by belleslettres



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (not the main pairing), (not the secondary pairing either), Coffee Shop, Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Mentions of abortion but no actual abortion, Mild Angst, Mpreg, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-War, mentions of unsafe sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2019-11-05 06:30:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17913605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belleslettres/pseuds/belleslettres
Summary: After the War,everyonewanted something from Harry… and he fled to Romania and the arms of Charlie Weasley. But a year’s passed and he finds himself back in London… working at a coffee shop. After the War, St. Mungo’s refused to admit Draco into their Healer program… but he decided not to allow them to dash his childhood dreams, and enrolled himself in a Muggle nursing course. He fuels his nursing studies with an awful lot of coffee.OR the story in which Draco plays the piano and Harry falls in love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic and Warner Brothers. I am simply taking them out to play for a while. I promise to return them (more or less) in one piece when I am done. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.
> 
> This story is told in a _very_ non-linear way. I hope it's not too confusing!

Normally, he thinks coffee shop normally smells amazing… bitter coffee and behind that sweetness—chocolate, of course, and vanilla, hazelnut, and raspberry—all held together with steamed milk. There is a gentle medley of perfume and cologne carried in and out by the patrons, the constant note being the spicy jasmine scent his boss, Adelle, wears. Then, subtle and almost unnoticeable, is the books—all used, littering the coffee tables and jammed on a rickety bookshelf, just waiting to be read again—with tastes of cigarette smoke and sunshine hidden between their covers.

The coffee shop smells warm and comfortable. Homey, even. If he knew what a home was supposed to smell like. 

The fire is electric, but still gives out warmth and a friendly crackling sound, and when his shift is over, he likes to take a cup of chai tea and curl up before it on one of the ratty armchairs to read one of the tattered books.

Romances. Not the spy thrillers so many of the customers prefer. 

He has spent hours there… letting day become night and autumn become winter. Making coffee and serving snacks. Sipping tea. Reading before the fire.

It is here that Harry Potter, war hero, comes to cling to the last snatches of the childhood he never had. Here he can be nineteen—a university student, his boss thinks, living on his own for the first time. 

She’s right, in a way. Except when has he ever _not_ been on his own?

Today the smells of the coffee shop assault his nose and churn his stomach. 

Not like a hangover. Not like the stomach flu. But an undercurrent of nausea that drags at him, turning him away from his favorite smells.

Even the books.

His hands shake as the smell of the steaming milk twists its way through his nostrils—he wrinkles them, but it’s no use—and up into his sinuses. 

“Are you all right, love?” The woman at the counter is looking at him with concern. She’s not exactly a regular, but he knows her. “You look a little peaky.” 

Peaky. He’s exhausted. It’s not yet nine, and he’s scheduled ‘til three. He’ll never make it. He went to bed early last night, too.

“Just tired. Late night, you know. Exams are coming soon.”

Harry actually has no idea when exams are. He did think about getting a Muggle degree in… well, he didn’t know what, exactly… partly to pass the time. But, eventually, he decided against it. He doesn’t _want_ to leave the Wizarding World… just to take a break from it for a while.

~~~

After the war _everyone_ wanted something.

Kingsley wanted his support to become the Minister of Magic… and then wanted him to assure the public that the danger was over, to convince people that the Ministry was no longer serving the interests of the Death Eaters. The Aurors wanted him to join their ranks without a single qualification and no training. 

He was expected to attend the trial of every Death Eater… and testify against them, even the ones he didn’t know and had no personal evidence against. He spent so many grueling days in the Ministry depths. He testified _for_ Draco Malfoy, throwing all his influence against convicting him. Kingsley was furious, but Harry was beyond caring, and, as Harry suspected, Kingsley was not willing to stand against him. 

Draco Malfoy was cleared of all charges, and Harry, personally, returned his wand and shook his hand as flashbulbs went off around them.

There was a bit of an outcry, but in the end everyone still wanted him on their boards, to head their charities, to speak at their functions. 

Both the Wimbourne Wasps and the Chudley Cannons invited him to play starting Seeker. The Daily Profit offered him a job at the paper. Countless people wanted to write his biography. 

Molly Weasley wanted him to move into the Burrow. Ginny Weasley wanted them both to move into Grimmauld Place, and she started picking out curtains and wallpaper and hinting about wedding dresses and nursery furniture. Percy Weasley had a mile-long list of projects he wanted Harry to consult on. 

Minerva McGonagall offered him one of the rooms at Hogwarts, and peace and quiet, while he studied for his NEWTS, while he decided what he wanted to do. He almost accepted that offer.

In the end, though, it was Charlie Weasley’s invitation to Romania that had him packing his things, leaving a note for Ron and Hermione, and disappearing without a trace.

* * *

It’s a week before Harry says anything besides, “Thank you for having me.” 

He lets Charlie wrap him in blankets and sit him before the fire, lets Charlie bring him tea and earthy stews made from root vegetables and warm spices. He watches the flames dance and tries not to think about the Fiendfyre and Draco Malfoy’s hand… so sweaty— _Gods! It almost slipped right out of his!_ The thought makes his hands shake. He tries not to see snakes in the flames, hissing in Parseltongue, hissing in Voldemort’s voice. He tries not to see the faces of the dead… Dumbledore… Snape… _Fred_ … Lupin… Tonks… _Sirius_ … 

Charlie doesn’t try to make him speak… but he touches him gently, his shoulder, his cheek, his hand, as he walks past.  
Harry doesn’t sleep, but stays… watching the fire… his fingers wrapped around whatever earthenware vessel he has most recently been handed. The cabin is dark, its windows tiny, but sunlight streams in when Charlie opens the door. 

It’s been five days. 

Charlie’s fingers are calloused, rough even, but his touch is gentle as he lifts Harry’s chin, forcing his gaze away from the fire and into aquamarine eyes. 

“The day is fine, Harry. Come for a walk with me.”

Harry rises, stiff-kneed under Charlie’s hand. 

The day _is_ fine. 

Charlie’s little cabin is at the edge of a wide valley, surrounded by tree-covered mountains and in the middle of the dragon preserve. It’s a two-day walk from anywhere. A shallow creek, slow and sandy, wanders through the valley. 

Charlie leads the way along the creek and up into the mountains, the trees are beautiful, all dressed up for fall. Harry simply follows, the dry leaves rustling under his feet, the sun warm where it brushes his face.

~~~

They walk almost every day—and see no one; even the dragons leave them strictly alone.

At first Charlie leads the way, with Harry following, mutely, behind… then shoulder-to-shoulder, and finally holding hands. Words become a part of Harry’s life again. He doesn’t talk about the War… about England… about the people he left behind, but he will call out, drawing Charlie’s attention to a particularly brilliant leaf or a stone that sparkles in the creek bed. Harry begins to sleep at night, and when his nightmares get the better of him, he lets Charlie hold him close, smoothing his hair, whispering words he doesn’t understand, words said with rhythm, but no melody; they could be Cornish, they could be Romanian… Harry can’t tell, and doesn’t ask. He just snuggles closer. Even at night, Charlie smells like sunshine… and leather and singed fabric. 

When the snow comes and the wind turns bitter, Charlie builds up the fire and spreads out furs and blankets before it. 

The first time Charlie kisses him, his strawberry blond stubble scratching softly, his lips achingly gentle, Harry feels… _present_ … alive in the moment. He isn’t looking ahead to a future filled with pain and fear and death, no remembered screams haunt him from the past. He feels only Charlie’s fingers cupping his head, his thumb gentle on his cheek, his tongue sweeping into his mouth bringing with it the sweet taste of stewed meat and sage and nutmeg.

Harry makes a soft noise and just lets himself _feel_ … safe, cherished, maybe even _loved_. 

It’s not meant to be permanent, though. 

“You’ll leave when you’re ready, Harry,” Charlie whispers, cradling his face in the way that makes Harry feel as though he can float. “You’ll not leave a moment before that, or stay a moment longer. Do you understand?”

Harry does.

He’s like one of the wounded dragons Charlie nurses back to health before returning them to the wild. The thought is mildly embarrassing, but Harry can’t find it within himself to feel anything but grateful. 

They sleep, they drink tea, they fuck. Outside the wind howls… but it can’t get in.

Charlie’s body is muscled and golden and lightly dusted with hair the color of sunrises. There are freckles… and so many scars: the shiny patches of healed burns on his hands and arms, raised lines that Harry can find, even with his eyes closed, and dozens of spots of silver that disappear when he blinks, or when the light from the fire shifts. Charlie’s body is strong enough that it can rise above him, supporting itself for hours while Charlie kisses him, while he moves slowly inside him, reducing Harry’s whole world to a touch… a taste… a soft groan of pleasure.

Charlie is careful with him… never hurried, maybe not even passionate, but so _giving_. Harry marvels at how hands… how a body that is so strong… so battered… can be so gentle. And so sensitive. It can tell… from a hitch of breath, a flutter of a heartbeat, when it’s pleasing Harry… when it’s not. 

Charlie pulls his mouth off Harry’s cock, his mouth glistening like lip gloss. “If you don’t like something, Harry, you have to _tell_ me. Okay?” 

Harry nods, his eyes skittering away. “It’s fine. It feels good.”

Charlie’s beside him now, cradling him to his chest. “But you don’t like it?”

“I should like it,” he says softly. 

“Mmmm, uh-uh, Harry.” Charlie pulls him even closer. “I’m not interested right now in what you think _should_ like. I only care about what you _do_ like. What do you like, Harry?”

“This.” Harry pushes back against Charlie until his arms tighten. “Yes, this. When you’re sucking me, you’re too far away. I want to be held.”

The last bit comes out almost like a whimper and Charlie presses a kiss to temple.

~~~

Around the cabin, the snow melts and the little creek rages through the valley. Harry’s nightmares fade. The days lengthen and Harry spends his time hiking and helping Charlie to chop firewood for a winter he knows he will not spend on the mountain.

When the days begin to shorten again, he knows it’s time to go home. He finds a tiny flat in London and the job at the coffee shop. Almost no one knows he’s back.

* * *

“Well, don’t work too hard, dear,” the woman says, taking her coffee and giving him an encouraging smile.

“She’s right, you know,” his boss says. “You do kind of look like crap.”

“Thanks, Adelle,” he says drily. “Like I didn’t know.”

“Look,” she says, and he has to take a step back, covering his nose with his hand; her perfume suddenly seems to be assaulting him, “why don’t you go sit down for a bit? Rest a little. We’re not busy, and I’d rather have you not faint—or vomit!—behind my counter.”

Harry doesn’t have it in him to argue. 

She brings him a cup of ginger tea, but he’s asleep before it finishes steeping.

~~~

They did, finally and officially, make October 31st Harry Potter Day.

For the _first_ Harry Potter Day, he was trotted out to a Ministry Gala. There were so many hands to shake, so many smiles to be forced before the endless flashbulbs… Didn’t they _know_? This wasn’t a day to be celebrated… this was the day his parents had _died_ , the day he had been flung, alone, on the path that would lead to him walking, deliberately, into the dark forest… to his death. 

Kingsley was always beside him… one more introduction… one more hand, one more smile… He fled to Romania the following morning.

This year he ignored it. 

Well, not completely.

He found that, while he certainly did not wish to celebrate, neither did he want to stay in his flat, alone, mourning his parents, mourning the life he might have led. He found himself in Muggle bar, ordering a fruity sort of cocktail. He found himself on the dancefloor in the strong arms of a tall, muscular man. Blond… but with so many pale freckles. 

Another drink. Maybe two. 

More dancing. The man held him close. “Let me take you home,” he whispered, his almost-beard rough against his ear.

Harry let him.

* * *

He wakes, sore, with a jumble memories that trip over each other like tumbling down stairs—hard kisses that scratch… laughter and keys scraping against a lock… a frantic fumbling with belts and shoes… the mist illuminated by streetlights as they walked down a street Harry does not recognize…

A man’s mouth on his cock…  
_“Come for me, baby…”_

Being pushed back onto a bed…  
_“God, you’re so fucking gorgeous.”_

Harry blinks. Again. Once more.

Everything is _white_ … the bed he is in, the walls, even the sky outside is a sort of greyish white. Morning, but foggy. The couch across the room is white, the counter in the little kitchenette… white marble.

_He_ … the man with the blond hair and freckles, the man who held him close while they danced, is standing, naked, by that counter, pouring coffee into a pair of white mugs. 

Lance, Harry’s mind reluctantly supplies. His name is Lance.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Lance says. “I’ve made coffee.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, his voice croaking a little.

It’s less of a shock and more of a slowly dawning realization that he, too, is naked. Which makes sense, of course. But he finds the idea of striding… naked… across the room to receive a cup of coffee from a man he doesn’t know… disconcerting.

He’s not used to this.

He pulls the duvet a little higher, though the room is pleasantly warm. The full weight of his nakedness crashes down on him a moment later. _Merlin_! Had he used protection spells? Unlikely in the presence of a Muggle. There is no evidence of a condom.

A chill creeps up Harry’s spine. He pulls the duvet even higher. He does know that Wizards can’t catch any of the STIs that plague Muggles, so the oversight, if there was one… and he is becoming aware of some fairly convincing evidence that there _was_ an oversight… isn’t likely to be life-threatening; anything in the Wizarding world can be cleared up with a course of nasty-tasting potions… but Charlie always cast protection charms anyway. 

The idea of someone… this Lance… this _stranger_ … being naked inside him…

Lance is beside him now, handing Harry a mug. He takes a sip, not knowing what else to do.

Black. Bitter.

He sets it on the nightstand.

“Hey, look, I don’t want to rush you or anything…” Lance runs a hand through his just-been-fucked hair, “but my partner is due back today and I’ve got a bit of cleaning to do before he gets back. Laundry, you know?”

He laughs, nodding at the rumpled bed Harry is still sitting in.

“You’re with someone?” Harry asks. His voice sounds tiny.

”Going on five years.” Lance laughs again. “Lucky he travels a lot. For business, you know? Keeps me from getting bored.”

“Does he know? What you do when he’s gone?”

“What? Bring home beautiful boys to fuck?” He brushes Harry’s hair back from his cheek. “Yeah. I guess.”

“And… he doesn’t mind?”

“Oh, I think he minds a little. But he always comes back to me, so I guess he doesn’t mind too much.” A wink. “Besides. It’s just a hook-up, right? It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Right.” Harry tries to hide the knife-slash across his heart by turning away from Lance and sliding out of the bed. Luckily his trousers are on the floor by his feet. He pulls them on.

He should have known… he should have _seen_ last night for what it was: a hook-up, nothing more.

A mistake.

But is it so wrong that, for just one night… just _that_ night… he didn’t want to be alone?

“Hey…” Lance’s fingers lift his chin a little. “I had a great time last night.”

His lips brush Harry’s… softly at first, then harder. Harry feels himself gasping, feels Lance’s tongue, sure and demanding, inside his mouth. A firm hand on his hip pulls him close and Harry can feel Lance, hard against him, through his half-buttoned trousers. 

“You are so _fucking_ gorgeous,” Lance grinds out.

This is how he wound up in Lance’s arms… his flat… his bed… in the first place. Harry knows, too, with a sick twist of his heart, that he won’t stop Lance from fucking him again now… even though he’s sore, even though he doesn’t really _want_ to, even though he’s probably going to be late for work. 

Even though he’s nothing but a meaningless shag.

“God, I wish we had more time,” Lance says, releasing him. “But give me your numbers and I’ll hit you up next time my partner’s out of town.”

“Right,” Harry says, slipping his shirt over his head before finishing with his trouser buttons.

~~~

He does leave his mobile number… knowing full well he will never receive a call from Lance. Promising himself that he will never return the call if he does.

* * *

Harry is dreaming… about the coffee shop. About Draco Malfoy. About Adelle and her perfume which is sharp and cloying and circling around his head like something out of the cartoons he used to watch, peering over Dudley’s shoulder, pretending to be cleaning, when he was young. 

He’s exhausted. His eyelids are heavy. He pries them open anyway. 

The first thing he sees is a pair of dark chocolate eyes, looking intently at him.

“Thank goodness! We were starting to worry,” the face attached to them says. Adelle. “You’ve been asleep for almost three hours.”

“I… Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Harry, love, anyone who falls asleep in a chair in the middle of a coffee shop and sleeps for _three hours_ must need the rest.”

“I’m sorry, Adelle,” he says, trying to push himself upright. “I’ll make it up.”

Upright is not ideal, and as soon as he is vertical, his stomach rebels completely. He pushes past the real Draco Malfoy and makes it to the loo just in time. 

Strong, slim hands hold him steady as he relieves himself of the remnants of his breakfast. Malfoy really is a University student, in his second year of a nursing course… of all the unexpected things. 

Harry was three days into his job at the coffee shop, two days past spilling and dropping things at regular intervals, when Malfoy strolled through the door, greeted Adelle by name, and nodded when she asked if he wanted his usual. Harry _did_ drop the carton of milk he was holding… but it was just about empty so not as embarrassing as it could have been. 

It amused Adelle to learn that they had attended an “elitist Scottish boarding school” together. 

Besides Malfoy, only Ron, Hermione, and Charlie are aware that he is in London. 

Harry sits back, feeling suddenly and inexplicably better. Malfoy hands him a damp paper towel to wipe his face. 

“Alright?”

“Yeah… I guess… stomach bug?”

“Looks like.” Malfoy glances over his shoulder; they are alone and he conjures a glass of water.

“Thanks.”

“Come on, Potter, let me take you home.”

* * *

Harry is surprised to find himself waiting for Malfoy to come into the coffee shop… something he does most days, often twice a day. Malfoy the nursing student is soft-spoken and kind—he always holds the door for people, never places an order without a “please” and “thank you”, and once Harry watched him chase a woman half-way down the block, holding the pink stuffed bunny that had fallen from her child’s pram.

He always orders a latte, full-fat milk, with molasses and cinnamon. If he’s on his way to class, he warmly expresses his gratitude and leaves. If he’s done for the day, he often sits down with the drink, picks up one of the tattered paperbacks, and reads for a bit.

Sometimes he stares absently into the fire.

~~~

It’s a Thursday. A thick October rain is falling from the darkening sky. Harry is holding his tea, wondering… if Malfoy would like company… if Malfoy would like _his_ company… if Malfoy’s been waiting for him to work up the nerve to do exactly what he’s about to do.

“May I join you?”

“I’d like that.”

It becomes… not quite a routine—nothing about Malfoy’s schedule could be called routine… he has classes and placements at odd hours and holds himself to a strict study schedule that reminds Harry disturbingly of Hermione… but several times a week they find time for each other. To sit, mostly. Sometimes they talk.

This new Malfoy seems to always be on the verge of exhaustion, running off some sort of inner strength made up of a quiet tenacity, sedate optimism, and an awful lot of coffee. 

Harry likes him, admires him, maybe, and he can’t help but wonder if this Malfoy is even new at all… was he always there, and without Voldemort insuring that they were born enemies would he have seen it right away? Would they have been friends?

Or lovers, maybe, who snogged in the halls between classes and snuck into each other’s dorms at night?

~~~

“I think I’ve always wanted to be a Healer,” Malfoy says, sitting before the fire, his hands wrapped around his coffee cup. “When my father punished the house elves, I would tend their injuries—how sick is that? I told my father after second year that I wanted to be a Healer. He informed me, rather sternly, that a Healer wasn’t a suitable occupation for a Malfoy. He forbade me from helping the house elves… The first time I ignored him, tried to help an elf anyway… that just made the elf’s punishment so much worse.”

Malfoy _almost_ tells his story with his usual detached calmness… but not quite, and the slight wobble in his voice makes Harry afraid to ask what the elf’s punishment was—or what Draco meant by “rather sternly.” 

“So what is a suitable occupation for a Malfoy?” he asks instead. 

“Minding the estate. Meddling in politics.” A long pause. “Mass murder, apparently.”

“You never killed anyone.”

“There’s an oath, do you know? That Muggle healers take. I know you know it,” Malfoy says. “ _Do no harm_. I did… rather a lot of harm… Before.”

It’s true, but for the sake of the darkness swirling in Malfoy’s eyes, eyes that look like they would give anything to _unsee_ so many of the things they have seen… Harry wishes with all his heart that he can think of something… anything… to say to make it better.

“I have choices now, ones I didn’t have… before. With Father… and the estate… well, you know.”

Harry does know. 

Lucius Malfoy will die in Azkaban. Malfoy Manor was burned to the ground, ostensibly to destroy the remnants of dark magic that lingered in the walls—in reality, it was simple revenge. Narcissa retired to a small Black holding near Paris.

“I thought that if I helped enough people… I could make up for _some_ of the things I did. I should have known that St. Mungo’s wouldn’t have anything to do with me.” He says it carefully, as if the words—or worse the person saying them—might shatter. “I thought about joining Mother… trying to see if L’Hopital des Anges would take me… But _this_ is my home. And Muggles have healers, too. I’m _already_ a good nurse. I can help people here.” 

“I’m sure you can. I’m sure you _are_.”

Malfoy gives him a rare smile. “Hermione helped me get all the papers I needed to enroll in the course.” 

For the briefest second the smirk that Harry knew and loved and hated lit Malfoy’s face. “She was very kind,” he says. “She didn’t have to be.”

“Hermione is kind.”

“I know.”

“Are you… happy?”

“I… yes…” Malfoy says softly, a touch of wonder in his voice. “Yes. I think I am. Are you?”

Harry looks down… away. Is he happy? Has he ever been, truly, happy? Would he even recognize happiness if he felt it?

He feels the weight of Malfoy’s fingers on his… feels him pulling his gaze back… up. 

One of the things he’s noticed is that Malfoy’s eyes change color… dark to light to dark again… Harry’s not sure how or why. They’re dark now, like a black you can see through. 

“I…” He’s lost. “I… this, right now… this is nice.”

* * *

Harry’s flat is tiny and sparsely decorated in what could politely be considered “eclectic,” but what would really be better described as “things other people were throwing away.” In the main room there’s a threadbare sofa at one end, a beautiful-but-battered Victorian-era table with three mismatched folding chairs in the middle, and a tiny kitchen at the other end. In his bedroom, the mattress on the floor takes up almost all the space—you can only walk all the way around it because of the wide bay window. There’s no tub, just a toilet and a tiny stand-up shower. 

Harry has mixed feelings about the flat, but it’s all he can afford without a trip to Gringotts, which would alert the Wizarding world to his presence and entirely defeat the purpose of a Muggle flat in the first place. 

He watches Malfoy, who could not be dissuaded from seeing him safely home, scan the room. “You have a piano?” he asks. “You can play the piano?”

An old piano stands along one wall, currently supporting Harry’s meager library. According to his landlady, someone left it behind ages ago. The flat is four floors up—it’s stayed.

“Not at all. It was here when I moved in.”

“Do you mind?” Malfoy is already lifting the lid.

“I’m sure it’s out of tune.”

Malfoy just gives him a _look_ and pulls out his wand. He makes a number of complicated gestures, plays a few cords, repeats the spell, and plays a few more cords. 

Then he sits down, reverently pressing his fingers to the worn keys… and notes begin to float out of the piano in little skips and starts and gentle cords. Harry watches as Malfoy’s hands dance up and down the piano.

He feels tears prickling the corners of his eyes before his conscious mind recognizes the song. The first time he heard it, he cried too… trying to keep his back to the coffee shop, trying to hide the hot tears trickling down his cheeks, tears he didn’t quite understand, from Adelle and the coffee shop patrons. 

“Hallelujah,” he breathes. 

Malfoy nods—maybe he’s answering the question Harry didn’t ask, maybe it’s only a gesture of intensity as the music swells.

Harry doesn’t try to hide the tears here. 

Emotions, pure and raw, fill the room… love and hate and lust and longing swirl… reverently, _brutally_ … together into something almost tangible, almost visible. Head bent low, Malfoy’s fingers crash onto the keys. One of the books on the piano slithers towards the edge and tips, unheard, onto the floor.

Harry isn’t breathing. It would be impossible… sacrilegious… to interrupt the music—even to draw breath.

As the notes drift from violent to exquisite, wisps of oxygen begin to find their way back into Harry’s lungs. He watches Malfoy take a deep breath. He feels a tear drip off his cheek and splash down onto his collarbone. 

Malfoy’s fingers press down on the last cords… the last delicate notes slipping away like thistledown in a gentle breeze. He turns back towards Harry, his face stripped bare of every mask it has ever worn. 

“Draco… that was…” Words have escaped him. “I… I… I didn’t know you could play,” Harry finishes lamely.

Malfoy is before him, wiping Harry’s cheek with a gentle thumb. 

“I don’t often get the chance,” Malfoy says, and Harry can see him gathering back the pieces of _himself_ that escaped with the music, tucking them back into the calm exterior that he wears, Harry knows for certain now, like armor. “I don’t have a piano… anymore.” 

“You have one. It’s right here. Will you play some more?”

“Another time… After I put up a silencing charm! Your poor neighbors… that wasn’t very considerate… I hope no one was trying to sleep… I’m sorry, I just…” 

“They wouldn’t have minded. They couldn’t have minded. It was… gorgeous.”

“I _miss_ playing.”

Harry takes Malfoy’s hand and places it on the piano. “You don’t have to miss it anymore.” 

“I… Thank you, Harry.”

“Are you hungry?” Harry asks. “Do you want a sandwich? I have fresh turkey.”

“I’m already late. I just wanted to make sure you got home okay. Wait. Are _you_ hungry?”

“I am.” He’s starving actually—though it feels odd, unnatural, maybe, to say it out loud. 

“Do you want some broth? I could transfigure…”

“No. What I really want is a turkey sandwich… with spicy mustard,” he says. “I know it sounds weird. And then to take a nap.”

“It does sound weird… but it’s your stomach.” Malfoy reaches for the notepad on the table and scribbles something down. “Call me if you need anything. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Harry. Promise me.” Malfoy’s voice has a slight edge to it. 

At first Harry thinks Malfoy is reaching for his face… his cheek, or maybe his chin… and Harry longs to feel the cool brush of those fingers. Maybe he _is_ … but in the end, it’s Harry’s shoulder that he touches.

“I’ll be fine,” Harry whispers. “I don’t want to be a bother.” 

“You’re _not_. You could never be. And I’m coming back after class.” And, almost as if he knows Harry is opening his mouth to object, he adds, “I’ll play for you.”

“I’d like that.”

Malfoy’s hand is still on his arm, his expression unsure and maybe a little confused, as if he’s not sure how to release it. Harry doesn’t want him to—and he would very much welcome a kiss… on the cheek, the lips would be better… and a proper hug. 

“Draco… thank you,” he says, which is as close as he knows how to come to asking for those things. 

“I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” Draco squeezes his arm and walks out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> L’Hopital des Anges is a real (fictional) place... mentioned in _Dragonfly in Amber_ by Diana Gabaldon. Although it is never mentioned in any of the _Outlander_ books, I am certain that Mother Hildegarde was a witch.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: Harry is going to talk a little more about his "hook-up" with Muggle in this chapter. I don't think this chapter deserves a "dubious consent" tag... but you might want to proceed with caution if you find conversations about consent and what constitutes consent triggering.

Harry didn’t expect Lance, dressed in nothing but a pair of boxers, to walk him out. He didn’t expect him to kiss him, long and lingering, on the doorstep. 

“I’ll call you,” Lance says, lightly brushing Harry’s cheek.

Harry steps out, into the fog… onto a street he does not recognize. Lance shuts the door.

~~~

Fog reminds Harry wide open spaces… of the very best of solitude… Of Hogwarts on the sort of day when everyone is indoors and the grounds are quiet, of Christmas morning at the Burrow before everyone is awake…

Of the mountain… of stepping out of the cabin into the valley, barefoot and shirtless, proof of Charlie’s love still splattered across his stomach. Of a cold that is feather-light and refreshing rather than biting. Of the cry of a dragon, and not being able to tell if it’s just a few hundred yards away, cloaked in the mist, or on the next mountain. Of Charlie coming to stand behind him, to kiss where his neck joins his shoulder, pulling him close with one hand, pressing a cup of tea into his hand with the other. 

Fog smells crystal clear… and the smell doesn’t mix with anything else that might be there—always at least two separate smells. At Charlie’s cabin, he could smell fog… and the hopeful smell of freshly turned earth. 

Here he smells cat piss and something that reminds him of dirty socks. 

He has forty-five minutes to shower and change and get to work. 

One thing about Apperating is that you don’t have to know where you _are_ … only where you are _going_. It’s foggy enough that Harry doesn’t bother looking for a secluded spot, but rather simply turns on his heel and disappears.

~~~

It’s midmorning now, and the fog has lifted slightly and become a drizzle. The coffee shop is, and has been, remarkably empty all morning—even Adelle isn’t really there; she’s in the back, doing paperwork. Which is lucky, because Harry just doesn’t want to _see_ people this morning.

Even Malfoy. Maybe especially Malfoy.

“I have to tell you, Potter, you look like shit this morning.”

“Do you really? Have to tell me, I mean.”

“I think so.”

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you,” Harry says, pulling on schoolboy sniping to get him through the exchange. “I don’t suppose you’ve looked in a mirror lately.”

“I know what I look like,” Malfoy says, with almost no bite at all. “In the past forty-eight hours, I’ve had three midterms and two twelve-hour placements, the last of which was more like fourteen because one of the _actual_ nurses couldn’t make it in, and there were two separate emergencies just as I was getting ready to walk out the door. I’ve had a little less than ten hours of sleep, and I have to be at my next placement, which, thank Merlin, is only six hours long, in exactly nineteen minutes, which is the _only_ reason I am not sitting down with you right now and _demanding_ that you tell me what the hell happened.”

Harry opens his mouth, and then shuts it again.

“I know what yesterday was,” Malfoy say softly, reaching over the counter to place his hand on Harry’s. 

“I went to some Muggle pub last night. Met a guy, went home with him and let him fuck me. I’m not really feeling very good about myself right now.”

Admirably, Harry thinks, Malfoy’s expression doesn’t change all that much. Fingers squeeze his. Gently. 

“I’ll be back. We’ll talk then… if you like.”

“I put in an extra shot of expresso,” Harry says. “You work too hard, Malfoy.”

Malfoy snaps down the lid of his travel mug. “I know,” he says, giving Harry a tired smile. “Thanks.”

~~~

It’s almost a week before Harry feels like he _can_ talk about it.

Also, he’s bleeding. 

He was trying to open a carton of… something… and the knife slipped, cutting his hand rather badly. Which is how he’s found himself, seated on a bench in the park around the corner from the coffee shop, his hand being cradled between Malfoy’s. 

“Shhh… hold still. I can have this better than new in two seconds.” 

Harry feels the surreptitious touch of Malfoy’s wand, then the cold trickle of a disinfecting charm, then a pinch, then… nothing. 

Malfoy is still holding his hand. “You’re going to have to keep that bandaged for a couple of days, or Adelle will get suspicious. It was bleeding like a war wound.”

“I know… Thank you.”

Malfoy laughs a little laugh. “Anytime.”

“How do you…? In the hospital, I mean, knowing you could save someone with a wave of your wand… how do you _not_?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I _do_. Mostly because it’s not that easy… it’s not just waving a wand. Healing spells are fueled by _intention_ , yes, just like other spells, but they also need the magic of the person being healed. Healing spells just won’t _work_ on a Muggle…” He sounds frustrated. “It’s hard sometimes to _not_ , but it’s just not worth a life sentence in Azkaban… not for something that won’t do any good at all.”

Malfoy turns over Harry’s hand, moving gentle fingers across his palm, where the cut had been. There’s no trace of it now. 

“Someday it will be a witch or a wizard… or a Muggle-born child… and then it would be different. Even if they _would_ throw me in Azkaban. Which, I suppose, they would.”

“You’d do it then? Use magic to save them? Even if it meant Azkaban?”

“To save someone’s life? To save a _child’s_ life? In a heartbeat.”

Harry feels a deep, almost painful, desire to kiss him. 

“Although, I fully expect you to play the hero again, and get me out.” 

“I would. You know I would.”

“Yes, I know.”

Harry is quiet, watching two girls spinning on the merry-go-round. Malfoy’s fingers are still tracing Harry’s palm… although it has long since stopped feeling like the fingers of a Healer on his patient. But not _quite_ like a lover, either. 

“Harry? Are you okay?”

“I… no?”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to be okay.” He’s holding Harry’s hand, but also his eyes. “Do you want to tell me about Halloween?”

“Yeah. I just… I don’t know…” Harry is quiet for a moment. “He had a boyfriend. He _has_ a boyfriend. I didn’t know.”

“Did you like him then?”

Harry sighs. “Not really. I think, maybe, not at all.”

Malfoy is still holding his hand… pressed between his own. His fingers haven’t completely stopped moving, but almost. The two girls are still on the merry-go-round, giggling as they spin.

“I… I want him to have raped me. Does that sound stupid? I want him to have forced me. Or for me to have been so drunk that I could say I didn’t know what I was doing. But I wasn’t. He asked me to come home with him and I _went_. He kept asking me… ‘is this okay?’ and I kept saying ‘yes’… even when it _wasn’t_. I just didn’t _say_. And I don’t know why!”

Harry can feel tears dripping down his cheeks. Malfoy pulls him closer. Their foreheads aren’t touching, but almost. 

“I know… it doesn’t make any _sense_.”

“It doesn’t have to, Harry. You’re _allowed_ to feel this way. You’re allowed to feel upset, hurt… even violated.”

“I thought… I wanted… I just wanted not to be alone that night. To he held… loved even. Not to wake up in some stranger’s bed. Some stranger with a boyfriend.”

“I know.”

“Is that so _wrong_?” It comes out louder than he meant. 

The girls don’t notice, but their mother glances up before returning to her book. 

“No, of course not.” 

“But I was nothing… nobody… just someone he could fuck while his boyfriend was away. He didn’t give a flying fuck about _me_.”

“Then he’s an idiot. That guy… he has no idea… Harry…” Malfoy takes a deep breath. His eyes are wide and pale grey. “Harry _I_ give a flying fuck.”

Harry’s hand is still safe between Malfoy’s. Malfoy’s head bends a little, his lips brushing Harry’s knuckles.

* * *

Draco’s worried about Harry; Harry can tell. 

To be honest, _Harry_ is worried about Harry. 

Yes, he had a stomach bug… he got sick at work… it was embarrassing… but that was almost two weeks ago. And he’s still not feeling right. The exhaustion lingers and the nausea hasn’t really cleared up—a couple mornings he’s even vomited again, though, thankfully not at work. 

Draco wants him to go to St. Mungo’s, but he’s flat-out refused. 

“If I take one step in there the whole _fucking_ Wizarding World will know I’m back in, like, three seconds! I… I’m not ready, Draco. I _can’t_!” 

“Okay… okay.”

Harry consented to a few diagnostic spells… that didn’t turn up any useful information. 

Most days Harry gets through work… and grabs some takeaway from the Indian place near his flat. He’s finding that when he’s not nauseated he’s starving… lamb vindaloo… chicken madras… the hotter the better… which doesn’t make any sense at all, but he’s _living_ for spices these days. He’s eaten more naan that any one person should be able to eat… ever. 

Draco’s been coming over most evenings. Ostensibly to play the piano, but they both know he’s there to check up on Harry. 

Harry feels like this is something that should bother him, but usually he just curls up on the couch with a knitted blanket that clashes with everything. Even itself. Molly made it for him… Ron delivered it to him… at the coffee shop. Harry knows it’s killing them, but Ron and Hermione have been very respectful of the space Harry still, so desperately, needs.

He doesn’t even bother questioning why he doesn’t need space from Draco… why Draco now has a key to his flat when Ron doesn’t even know where it is.

Sometimes Harry falls asleep listening to Draco play.

~~~

Harry’s not asleep tonight. He’s just sitting… mesmerized.

Draco’s playing something soft… something light… and his hands move up and down the keyboard teasing out a melody that reminds Harry of a friendly creek tumbling over stones… of the way the sunlight would dance on that water… of early fall leaves drifting down, becoming little boats… 

Draco’s not playing for _him_ , exactly, but every note feels like a gift tied up in gold and silver thread. 

When he stops the notes hang, briefly, in the air, before slowly dissolving into the silence. Draco turns towards Harry then, his eyes liquid grey. He closes the piano. 

“You should go to bed,” he says, tracing Harry’s cheek. “You look exhausted.” 

“I am.” Harry leans into the touch. “I’m always so tired…” 

Draco doesn’t say anything about St. Mungo’s… but Harry almost wishes he would. He was sick again this morning.

“Do you think… I don’t know… do you think that I _caught_ something from him? Do you think I have AIDS?” Barely above a whisper.

“No.” Draco’s hand is still gentle on Harry’s cheek, but it tightens somehow… changes from caressing to confidant. “No, Harry, love, wizards can’t contract HIV… or any Muggle virus. You know that.”

He sits down.

“That’s what Hermione says, but—”

Draco cuts him off. “There you go then.”

“But… my mom was Muggle…so maybe…”

“Your mother was a Muggle- _born_ witch. She wasn’t a Muggle.” Now Draco’s eyes are steel. “Harry, if you can do magic, you’re a wizard. You cannot catch Muggle viruses, and Muggles cannot catch ours. You couldn’t have caught a _cold_ from that man, okay?”

He nods. Draco’s confidence is catching and he, almost instantly, feels better. He always feels better sitting beside Draco.

“We’ll figure it out. If you won’t go to St. Mungo’s, will you at least go to a Muggle doctor? I can take you to the office I’m working at this month. Maybe… I don’t know… maybe you have an underlying infection. Maybe even from this.” Draco picks up his hand, running his fingers over the completely healed cut. “I checked you for everything I can think of… but maybe I missed something… maybe a blood test…”

“I guess… but I thought you said…”

Draco smiles. “Wizards can’t catch Muggle viruses. Bacterial infections don’t seem to discriminate, however. Didn’t you have strep throat as a kid?”

“I don’t know.”

“You never had a sore throat and the doctor gave you bubblegum flavored medicine to take three times a day?” Draco’s tone is light.

“Whenever I got sick my aunt just locked, I mean had me _stay_ , me in my cup—er… room…” Harry doesn’t feel like lying. Not to Draco. Not now. “She locked me in my cupboard so I wouldn’t get Dudley sick. Or be in the way. I never went to the doctor.”

Harry closes his eyes against the look of horror in Draco’s face. 

“Can we just _not_?” he says. “Please? Just tell me why I could have gotten strep throat, but not the common cold from… from… _him_.”

Draco doesn’t want to let it go… Harry can tell. He’s almost vibrating with the need to ask more questions. Instead Draco takes a deep breath. 

“I don’t know, exactly,” Draco says. “I do have a couple of theories, though. The most likely of which is that, since they cannot survive without a living host, viruses co-evolved with humans… and that wizards and Muggles are different enough that viruses are simply unable to cross between the populations. Bacteria, of course, live everywhere—and are mostly harmless. However, certain bacteria, in certain environments can multiply in a way that can make a person—wizard or Muggle—very sick.”

Draco has adopted what Harry would consider a “lecture” tone. He sounds like Hermione.

“It’s fascinating—the differences between wizards and Muggles. You wouldn’t think it, of course, because physically we’re nearly identical… but magically… it’s fascinating! Can Muggle techniques improve wizarding medicine? Is there any way healing spells could be modified to help Muggles?” Draco’s not lecturing anymore, and the words run, most unprofessionally, together. “I’ve been studying…”

“Wizarding medicine, too. I _knew_ it!” 

Harry’s shocked to see Draco’s smile fade a little.

“Madam Pomfrey gave me some books,” he says quietly. “Professor McGonagall wrote a letter of recommendation for me… for St. Mungo’s. When they rejected me she even went down in person… but… Well, there wasn’t anything she could do… I think she asked Madam Pomfrey to send the books. I think she asked Hermione to help me get into the Muggle course.”

“Draco…”

“It’s fine, Harry. It really is. All I’ve ever wanted was to be able to take someone’s pain away. To be able to put my hands on them and _know_ I’m helping. It’s not St. Mungo’s… but in some ways it’s _better_ being in the Muggle world. I _like_ that I’m learning things I wouldn’t have learned at St. Mungo’s… and thinking about things I wouldn’t have thought about there. I’m _glad_ for this opportunity.” 

His eyes are shimmering, just a little. 

Harry leans forward… barely touching his lips to Draco’s. 

“I like that, too,” Draco says. Softly. 

Their next kiss is barely more than that, but the magic crackles between them… singing of promises yet to be made, passion yet to be shared. 

“You’re so tired, Harry.”

“If I go to bed, will you play one more song while I’m falling asleep?”

“I will always play for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still haven't put up my last tag yet. You are welcome to speculate. :)
> 
> I adore kudos and comments!!! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your comments! Either take a peek at the newest tag... or just read on to see if you guessed correctly! <3

Harry winds up seeing the nurse practitioner… a woman called O’Brien. She’s probably not more than a dozen years older than he is, and she has silvery blue hair, a nose ring, and an intricate tattoo sleeve on one arm that seems to center around a goldfish with flowing fins. She has a warm smile and very cold hands. 

Over Harry’s objections, she makes Draco stay in the waiting room.

Harry is required to leave a urine sample. Then O’Brien draws some blood, takes some invasive swabs, and ask even more invasive questions. She looks into his eyes and ears and throat. She listens to his heart and lungs and takes his blood pressure. She pokes at him with her cold hands. 

She gives him a lecture, which he feels he deserves, but desperately doesn’t want to hear, about safer sex and why it is necessary to _always_ use a condom. 

“All right, Mr. Potter,” she says. “Nothing’s really jumping out at me as being the cause of your symptoms. You get dressed while I take a peek at these samples. Then we’ll chat.”

“Can Draco come back now?” Harry tries to say it like it’s a reasonable request. He tries to say it like he’s an adult who _could_ hear whatever it is she’s going to say without someone holding his hand, but that he just doesn’t want to.

O’Brien’s eyebrows rise… she has a ring in one of them that Harry hadn’t noticed before. 

“If that’s what you want. But, just to be clear, are you comfortable with me discussing anything—your medical history, any results I might discover, _anything_ —in front of him?”

“Yes. I’d tell him anyway… but I’d probably jumble it, you know?”

O’Brien laughs. “I’ll let him know.”

~~~

Their fingers are laced when O’Brien comes back into the room. Her eyebrows rise even higher, until the ring is hidden among blue bangs.

“I’m sorry, Malfoy,” she says, “I didn’t realize you two were…”

“We’re not…”

“It’s new…”

“We went to the same school…”

“We’ve known each other for ages, so…”

“We’re still figuring it out,” Draco says, squeezing Harry’s hand. 

Harry squeezes back. 

O’Brien smiles, her eyebrows coming back down. 

“All right, Mr. Potter, as far as I can tell, you’re perfectly healthy. All your swabs came back normal… though, of course, I’ll be sending everything out for further testing, but I don’t really expect the results will give me any cause for concern.

“Now, you do have a _slight_ elevation of…” She’s looking _at_ him… but Harry can tell she’s mostly talking to Draco… because the words she’s using are long, sound very specific and technical, and don’t make any sense to him at all. 

Draco’s nodding… asking a question… nodding again. 

“Stress could be a factor. Not enough sleep, too many fry-ups, not enough veg… I remember those days. You’ve got exams soon, right? What are you studying?”

“Er… history.”

Draco laughs out loud.

O’Brien looks at him. Questioning. Harry wonders just how high those eyebrows can go.

“Harry failed history at school,” Draco says. “I find his choice of majors hysterical.”

Harry tries for “affectionate scowl” as a facial expression. “It’s not _my_ fault Binns was _dead_ -boring.”

Draco rolls his eyes.

O’Brien laughs. “History’s all about the teacher, that’s for sure. My teachers at school were pretty awful too. It’s part of why I studied nursing! Anyway, like I said, it could be stress, but my money’s on a virus. You know the drill, Malfoy. Take him home, put him to bed. Lots of chicken soup, tea, and rest.” She _winks_ at Draco. “Mr. Potter, I’ll phone you if those test results tell me anything new. If you’re not feeling better in a week, come back in. All right?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “Thank you.”

“Thanks, O’Brien.” 

“It was my pleasure.” She winks again. “See you in the morning, Malfoy.”

The door shuts behind them.

“Your boss… she is your boss, isn’t she? … just told you to take me home and put me to bed.” Looking coy isn’t really Harry’s strong suit, but he gives it a go.

It must have been at least partially effective because Draco opens and shuts his mouth three times before finally saying, “She’s my _supervisor_ and she sent you home to _rest_ and be fed chicken soup.” 

“I _really_ don’t want chicken soup,” Harry says, maybe a little petulantly. “Let’s stop for curry before this whole ‘put me to bed thing’, yeah?”

~~~

Christmas is only a few weeks away, and Ron has now sent three owls asking Harry to spend Christmas at the Burrow—he hasn’t replied yet. He doesn’t know what he wants to say.

The Burrow has always been… not _home_ , exactly… but somewhere he has always felt _wanted_ and _loved_. Of course, that was before Fred died… and even if it wasn’t Harry’s _fault_ … it’s still irrevocably connected to it. And that was before he broke up with Ginny and ran away to her brother’s arms… her brother’s bed. Harry doesn’t know what, if anything, the Weasleys know about the time Harry spent with Charlie, and what they would think, if they did know—and he doesn’t want to find out. 

They’d stayed on the mountain last Christmas.

Harry feels better than he did last year… but the _newness_ of his life since he came back to London still feels too fragile to be exposed to the scrutiny Wizarding World—even just the confines of the Burrow. 

But… the Weasleys are the only family he has. 

Well, maybe not…

Draco is there, at the coffee shop, studying. His exams are coming up with the speed, and apparently the force, of a freight train… making him testy. The dark circles under his eyes rival Harry’s. He has his notes (color coded!) spread out on the table before him, and he is nibbling at the end of his pen, looking like they very opposite of the Draco Malfoy he knew and hated from his Hogwarts days.

Something inside Harry’s heart swells.

Draco looks up, briefly but thoroughly, and when his eyes meet Harry’s… 

_Is this what_ happiness _is supposed to feel like_? Harry wonders.

Harry brings over a cup of coffee, setting it down carefully, before resting his hands on Draco’s shoulders. He squeezes, working his thumbs into the knots that have formed. 

“Stretch a minute,” he says.

Draco arches into Harry’s touch. “Thanks,” he says. “That feels good.”

“Draco, are you going to France for Christmas?” The words sort of fall out, in a rush. He hadn’t _meant_ to say them.

The shoulders under his fingers tense again, and Harry squeezes gently. “I’m sorry, I…”

“No, it’s okay. It’s just… I don’t know. It’s… complicated. My mother… I _know_ she loves me and I _know_ she wants me to be happy… but she just doesn’t see how any of this… how even being a Healer, much less a Muggle nurse, could possibly make me happy. She doesn’t understand how hard I work… she doesn’t understand _why_ …”

He turns to look up at Harry… like he’s hoping Harry understand, maybe he’s _begging_ him to understand. 

Harry does. 

But he doesn’t have a reply. So he kisses him instead. 

Draco sighs a little, reaching up to cup Harry’s face… to slide his thumb along his cheek.

“So are you going to spend Christmas with the Weasleys?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says.

“Okay. Let’s not talk about it now. I can’t… right now. Let’s talk about it after Tuesday, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Draco stretches up again for one more kiss. “Now, let me get back to this,” he says.

Adelle is smirking when Harry returns to the counter.

“I _knew_ it,” she whispers.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I see,” she says. “So kissing the customers is just a thing you do now?”

Harry can feel himself blushing. Adelle looks like a cat who’s gotten into the cream. 

“It’s Draco,” Harry says helplessly. “Maybe it always has been.”

~~~

Harry was sick again this morning. He’s exhausted and cranky, and of all the stupid things, his favorite jeans are suddenly too tight. It has to be all the Indian takeaway. He’ll either have to walk more, which he doesn’t want to do because it’s getting _cold_ out, or eat less, which is also something he doesn’t want to do, because if he doesn’t eat, he feels sick again.

And spicy, hot Indian food is _all_ he ever wants to eat.

He hasn’t seen Draco in two days.

Ron sent another owl this morning. 

The woman at the counter is the sweet, not-quite-regular who always calls him “dear” and asks if he’s feeling all right. Today she doesn’t ask. Instead she tells him she’s going to sit down and asks him to bring her coffee over when it’s ready. 

Harry tries not to be irritated. She’s old. She’s _kind_. It’s not an unreasonable request. Somehow it makes him want to cry. 

He tries to smile when he sets it down in front of her.

“Sit a moment, dear,” she says.

He sits. Gratefully. He’s even more tired than usual today.

She takes a sip of her coffee. “Ah, it’s perfect. As always.”

“Thank you.”

She’s smiling at him. “Now, I have something I want to say, and I do apologize if I’m speaking out of turn, but I’ve been watching you these past few weeks… and, well… dear, is there any chance you could be pregnant?”

Harry blinks. “I… I’m a _boy_.”

“I’m not doubting that.” She pats his hand gently. Her knuckles are swollen with arthritis, but her manicure is subdued and perfect. The diamond on her ring is one of the ones that could feed a small country. “But I watched my mother go through three pregnancies and my sisters have had sixteen between them. I, myself, have been pregnant five times, and now I have three grandchildren and twenty-eight great-nieces and –nephews. I am not usually wrong when it comes to noticing when someone is expecting.”

She says it firmly. Almost matter-of-factly. As if it’s _reasonable_.

“I… but…”

“Not to panic, dear, but a trans boy… anyone with a uterus… can get pregnant if they’re not careful.”

Harry stares at her. 

He knows the definition to all of the words she’s just said… but he cannot quite comprehend how they relate to _each other_ much less to _him_.

Behind her, Draco is standing in the doorway, for once free of his satchel full of textbooks. He’ll have just finished his last exam. He should be looking as relaxed and carefree as Harry has ever seen him. Instead he’s white as a ghost. 

He begins taking mechanical steps towards Harry and places one hand on his shoulder. Harry isn’t entirely sure who’s supporting whom, but at least Harry is sitting down.

“But…” Draco stops. “But Muggles _can’t_ … can they?” 

The woman, whose expression suddenly reminds Harry of an unsettling combination of Professor McGonagall and Molly Weasley, shifts her gaze to Draco. 

“Young man,” she says firmly, “I don’t know what a _muggle_ is, but it had better not be one of those new-fangled terms used to insult or intimidate people these days.”

“No, ma’am,” Draco stutters. “I… wouldn’t.”

“Hmph,” the woman says. “You had better not. When the Good Lord chooses to use one of his more unusual molds for a person, why that only makes that person even more special.” She pats Harry’s hand again. “Maybe just needing a little bit of extra care sometimes.”

Harry feels that right not he might need a _lot_ of extra care. Though he couldn’t say as to _why_.

Harry can feel Draco’s hand beginning to tremble on his shoulder, but when he speaks it’s with his normal, collected voice. “I wouldn’t let anything… anyone, even myself… hurt Harry.”

Suddenly all the fierceness in the woman fades away and she looks utterly benevolent. “I can see that, dear,” she says. She stands, picking up her coffee. “I think I’ll just sit by the fire and read a bit. I think I see _Dragonfly in Amber_ over there. I do love that book! Dear,” she says, patting Harry’s hand one more time, “you need to make an appointment with your doctor.”

Then she’s gone. 

A part of Harry knows she’s only crossed the room… that she’s picking up her book… settling in before the fire… He doesn’t look. He _can’t_ … he’s motionless. He’s not blinking… or breathing. He’s not even sure his heart is beating. 

Then he’s running for the loo.

He’s leaning on the sink, the water he’s splashed himself with still running. The man staring back at him is drained of color… just green eyes staring out of a face he doesn’t recognize. 

A face he _does_ recognize joins his. That face is pale, too, but it’s _supposed_ to be.

Harry looks up, meeting Draco’s eyes in the mirror. “No… no… _right_?”

“I don’t know,” Draco says. “I mean, _yes_ , it’s possible… for a wizard. But it’s not easy… there are spells and usually potions, and it can take years… I’ve _never_ heard of it happening by _accident_. Harry, I’m so sorry… I should have insisted on St. Mungo’s.” 

“You _aren’t_ saying what I think you’re saying… are you?”

“Harry, love, I don’t know. She’s right, though. You have _all_ the signs of pregnancy.”

“No!” He takes a step back and bumps into the sink. Tears are streaming down his cheeks. He’s breathing but no air is entering his lungs. The world is going black at the edges.

“Harry! Harry! Look at me!” Draco captures Harry’s face with urgent hands. “Look at me, love. We’ll figure it out, okay? We’ll figure it out.” He wipes Harry’s tears. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”

* * *

It isn’t.

There’s a crowd before they even make it through the doors of St. Mungo’s.

“It’s Harry Potter!”

“Mr. Potter…”

“It’s such a pleasure to see you…”

“You’re not ill, are you?”

“Mr. Potter…”

“ _Mr. Potter!_ ”

There is no room here for Harry Potter… the teenager… the (pretend) university student… the boy who works in the coffee shop and drinks chai tea and reads romance novels and has a newfound love for Indian food. There is no room for the Harry Potter who is terrified and slightly nauseated.

They will only accept Harry Potter the War Hero. They will _demand_ Harry Potter the War Hero. And he doesn’t know how to refuse them. He never has.

He smiles. He graciously accepts their thanks and praise. He doesn’t shrink into Draco’s side as a flashbulb goes off around them.

There is no room for the Harry Potter who has fallen in love with Draco Malfoy.

A man he doesn’t know places his hand—firmly—on Harry’s arm. “Is that Death Eater bothering you, Mr. Potter?” he demands. The man has battleship grey hair, is wearing a pin-striped suit and is already pulling out his wand. 

“He’s not a Death Eater and he’s not bothering me,” Harry says as firmly as possible under the circumstances.

The man is also wearing several sickles worth of an astringent-smelling cologne. Harry tugs his arm out of the man’s grip—a feat that requires quite a bit of effort; the motion threatens to disrupt the fragile truce he and his stomach have reached.

Harry clamps a hand over his mouth, determined not to sick-up in the waiting room of St. Mungo’s. The subtle, yet cooling, scent of mint washes over him… masking the cologne… settling his stomach. 

“I’ll let you vomit on that man’s shoes if you like. Your choice.” If Draco was trying for a joke, he failed. The words come out tight. 

“Another time, maybe.” 

Between the man in pin-stripe robes and the threat of vomit, the crowd has backed off a little. 

“Excuse me, please,” Draco says to the Welcome Witch. She doesn’t look up. “We have an appointment with Healer Mitchell.”

“Death Eaters are not welcome at St. Mungo’s.” She sounds more bored than hateful. “You’ll have to leave.”

“He’s not going to leave,” Harry says, using the tone he perfected post-War, the tone that brought immediate results, the tone that insured that Draco was able to stand beside him now and was not rotting away in a cell in Azkaban. “He’s here with me.”

How Harry wishes he could have left that tone in the past.

Finally the Welcome Witch looks up. “Oh? How can I help you, Mr. Potter?”

She sounds much less bored. She _sounds_ like she might request an autograph. He hopes she doesn’t.

“I have an appointment with Healer Mitchell.”

“Is that Healer Mitchell in spell damage, or Healer Mitchell in obstetrics?”

“It’s Healer _William_ Mitchell,” Harry says.

“Obstetrics, then,” the Welcome Witch says, not softly. “First floor, third door.”

She allows them to pass through the door into the hospital. 

“Are you okay?” Draco asks, his eyes pale grey and worried. 

“Mostly.”

“Okay. Stairs or lift?”

“Stairs. Oh, fuck!”

Draco conjures a bucket just in time.

“It’s okay, love,” Draco says, rubbing his back. “Easy… no one’s watching.”

It’s true. In fact, the few people in the hall are studiously ignoring their Savior, half-collapsed on the linoleum tiles being nursed by a pardoned Death Eater.

“I can still _smell_ his cologne.”

“Hmmm…,” Draco says. “Let me cast a freshening charm. Is the peppermint okay, or would you rather lemon?”

“Peppermint, please,” Harry says. His voice sounds small.

~~~

Healer William Mitchell, or so Harry assumes; he doesn’t introduce himself, is tiny, ancient, and seems to be made of air and paper rather than flesh. He doesn’t make eye contact with either Harry or Draco.

“Possible pregnancy,” he mutters, gaze firmly affixed on Harry’s stomach. He casts a charm without asking. “Pregnancy confirmed.”


	4. Chapter 4

Draco has an owl named Isolde. Harry doesn’t know where she normally lives—Draco shares a tiny flat with five other nursing students; he can’t imagine an owl living _there_ —but lately she’s been perching herself on the back of one of Harry’s kitchen chairs. Harry’s surprised to find that he doesn’t mind—after Hedwig, he thought he’d never get another owl—but he likes having her there.

Of course, she’s not _his_ owl, she’s Draco’s, so that helps. She’s a smallish Tawney who doesn’t like to be petted and often stares down her beak at him. In a way, she reminds Harry of a thirteen-year-old Draco Malfoy… and he finds that oddly comforting. 

At the moment Isolde on her way to St. Mungo’s with a note requesting an appointment. 

Draco refused to take Harry to L’Hopital des Anges. 

“I’m sorry, love. Male pregnancies can be extremely unstable. It just wouldn’t be safe… not until we know for sure what’s going on.”

What’s going on, is that Harry is pregnant. 

As soon as they got back to Harry’s flat, Draco cast the diagnostic spell. He had barely said the incantation when the spell flared a bright, glowing pink. Pink for pregnant. 

Now Harry’s lying on the bed, Draco beside him… just waiting for Isolde to return with the time of the appointment. 

“What does it matter?” Harry asks, his words half-muffled, his face pressed into Draco’s chest. “I’m getting rid of it anyway.” 

“Harry… love…”

Draco cradles Harry, who doesn’t even feel like he has the strength to _lie_ on the bed without support, to his chest.

“I just want you to take me to that hospital in France, where no one knows who I am, so I can just get rid of it. I don’t want this!”

“Harry, I can’t. You _can’t_.” Draco doesn’t say anything else, he just presses his lips to Harry’s forehead. His fingers move gently through Harry’s hair.

It feels good… but Harry is beyond being comforted. 

“I’m not asking for your permission! It’s inside of me, not you! And I don’t want it there!” Harry’s words trip over themselves. 

“It’s not that, love,” Draco’s voice is gentle, soft… forcing Harry to strain a little to hear it. “It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s just that… you _don’t_ have a uterus, do you? In a male pregnancy the baby grows in a special… womb… fueled by your combined magic. If you try to separate it too soon… Harry, you could _die_. You could lose your magic.”

“I don’t care! I didn’t ask for this!” 

“I know. And I’m sorry for it.”

And in that moment, Harry hates him as much as he ever did… every fight, every hex, even the Sectumsempra curse… was _nothing_ compared to what he feels now. But even through his rage, a small part of him recognizes that this is in no way Draco’s fault… and Harry hates that part, too. He means to push away, but instead finds his face buried in Draco’s jumper, his fingers fisting the wool, unable to let go. 

“I didn’t ask for this!” It’s part sob, part scream. “I didn’t ask for _any_ of this! After the Dursleys and Voldemort and finding that I was _literally_ being raised to die and then _actually_ dying… and then being turned into some sort of hero-mascot that was supposed to smile and just do whatever he was told… Is it so fucking wrong for wanting someone to love me because I’m _me_ and not because they need me to save the world or because I’m working on their favorite fucking charity?”

“No, it’s not wrong,” Draco says softly. And then just holds him… letting him cry, letting him scream, even letting him stretch the jumper out, probably beyond hope of repair. 

“I was happy. I think I was happy… I’ve never actually _been_ happy, so I’m not even sure! But I liked it… I liked my life and working at the coffee shop and being with you… everything. I liked being _me_. And now it’s all being taken away! I have no choice _again_! I didn’t even know a bloke could get pregnant until an hour ago… and now I’m knocked up by someone that I can’t even tell… and wouldn’t fucking care if I could… who already has a boyfriend… that he cheats on… and probably doesn’t even know my name!”

He feels Draco’s arms tighten around him. He feels both better and worse for it. 

“Because I’m so fucked up that apparently I would do anything—even fuck a complete stranger that I didn’t even really want to fuck—just to not spend Halloween alone.”

Harry’s run out of words… and out of air to say them with. Sobs wrack his body. Draco just holds on… petting him as his body quiets. 

“I didn’t ask for this,” Harry whispers.

“I know… Shhh… I know… And I know that you think that that other man… Harry, he doesn’t know… anything. He doesn’t know…”

Harry feels a gentle pressure under his chin. Guiding, not forcing, him to look up. 

“Harry, I need you to hear me right now…”

Harry raises his eyes. They hurt… and are swollen and feel like they are full of sand. Draco’s eyes are molten iron.

“ _I_ care.” Draco’s fingers caress his jaw. “I care so _fucking_ much. Getting to know you… properly, this time… This... baby... doesn’t change that. I still want to be with you.”

Draco brushes his lips against Harry’s. 

“I should have _been_ there for you… Halloween night…” 

Harry blinks. The tears that are filling his eyes now are warm and soothing. “You didn’t know… _I_ didn’t know… how much I just wanted to _not_ be alone. Your course… your placements… they’re important to me. The things you want, they’re important to me.”

Draco picks up Harry’s hand and interlaces their fingers. “You don’t have to do this alone. Whatever _this_ is… Harry, I don’t know if you can safely terminate the pregnancy… but whatever you decide… you don’t have to do it alone.” Draco pulls their joined hands to his lips and places a gentle kiss on Harry’s knuckles. “Okay?”

“Okay. Draco…” 

Harry doesn’t have the right words… Instead he sits up a little, bringing his mouth to Draco’s. A kiss… another… he runs his tongue along Draco’s lower lip… “Is this okay?”

" _Yes!_ " 

Draco opens his mouth and they are kissing… properly. Draco’s free hand tangles in Harry’s hair and he makes little noises, sweet little noises that are halfway between a sigh and a purr as Harry teases his tongue along Draco’s… as he nips gently at his lower lip. 

Harry doesn’t know how long they have been kissing… or how long they might have gone _on_ kissing… but _long_ before he is done kissing Draco they are interrupted by a soft hoot.

Isolde has returned. 

Draco stands up to retrieve the letter. It would be addressed to Harry, but Isolde isn’t fond of letting Harry touch her.

“The appointment is for three o’clock tomorrow afternoon,” Draco says.

“Oh,” Harry says. It seems like a very long time to wait to find out… something. “Draco, what… do you know about it? Male pregnancy.”

Draco sighs. “Not a lot,” he says. “It’s obviously not a Muggle thing.”

“Oh.”

“I… know a few things,” Draco admits. “My great-grandfather… He didn’t have a wife. He had a _companion_ … they said. I don’t know his name. It’s not written down anywhere that I could find. I looked everywhere… I suppose you can imagine that I was rather fascinated with them, when I was younger… It was so romantic, a beautiful couple, fantastically in love… defying the odds, even the family, to be together.”

Harry feels the corners of his mouth turn up a little, imagining a young Draco, still pointy, but soft-eyed in the way that Hermione gets when she's researching, pouring through the ancestries in the Manor library... looking for information about his personal star-crossed lovers.

“Great-grandfather needed an heir, of course. Apparently it took years… there were demands for him to give up the _companion_ and marry a woman. But… he wouldn’t… and finally Abraxas, my grandfather was born.” There’s an odd tremble in Draco’s voice.

“But…” Harry is almost afraid to ask. “What happened to the companion?”

“He didn’t survive the birth,” Draco says, his words very precise.

“Oh.”

Draco grabs Harry, almost violently, by both arms. He doesn’t _quite_ shake him. “Harry, that is _not_ going to happen to you. Do you understand me? I won’t _let_ it.”

Harry nods, pressing his face into Draco’s jumper. Draco pulls him even closer.

“You’ll be fine,” he whispers into Harry’s hair. “I promise.”

* * *

Healer Mitchell makes no such promises. In fact, it rather seems he is promising Harry’s painful demise. 

He refuses to believe that the pregnancy could possibly be accidental, refuses to believe that the other father is a Muggle, and insists, with every other breath, that they have made a very poor—and possibly fatal—choice.

“Of course, there’s nothing to be done about it now,” Healer Mitchell says, fixing Draco with such a fierce glare that he actually _flinches._

Harry reaches for Draco’s hand. It’s trembling.

Harry wonders just how old _is_ Healer Mitchell? Had he been present for Draco’s great-grand _companion’s_ pregnancy, too? 

Harry has questions… so many of them… which is actively encouraged _not_ to ask. He is told to be quiet as Healer Mitchell tut-tuts his way through the examination, without once looking Harry in the eye. 

He insists that they are too young to start a family… that they are impulsive… reckless… That male pregnancies are difficult… irresponsible… unnatural… _dangerous_. He talks about hemorrhage… drained magical cores… premature labor… deformities… and delivery complications. 

Ultimately, though, Healer Mitchell is forced to admit that Harry is currently healthy and that the baby seems to be growing on schedule and not doing Harry any permanent damage. He sends Harry home with a list of potions to take daily and an appointment card for the following month.

~~~

Draco offers to go, alone, to the apothecary. Perhaps to spare Harry another public outing in the Wizarding World… perhaps because he just wants a few moments to himself. His face is ashen, his eyes steel.

“I’ll see you at home, then,” Draco whispers, kissing Harry and earning a scowl from Healer Mitchell before Harry turns on his heel and Apperates away. 

He arrives back in his flat with a tiny “pop.”

Maybe it’s nothing but pure stubbornness, but the more Healer Mitchell went on about how dangerous his pregnancy was, the less Harry was bothered by the idea. At the very least, people prophesizing his death—and people actively trying to kill him—is familiar territory. And the irony of surviving… everything, including his own actual murder, only to die in childbirth would just be too much. 

Harry pokes around in the cupboards for a few moments… before deciding he’s not really hungry. He has a glass of water instead. He lies down on the couch… but decides that he’s not sleepy. He wanders around the room for a few moments, picking things up and putting them down—not really tidying anything—before lifting the lid to the piano and picking out, one handed and with mistakes, the notes to _Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star_. It makes him feel marginally better, so he does it again. 

He wonders if Draco would teach him to play properly. 

He wonders if the baby will like hearing Draco play as much as he does.

He places his hands on his stomach. It’s no longer flat. “So, you’re really in there?” he whispers. 

No one answers.

He hadn’t had the nerve to ask Healer Mitchell outright about an abortion. And, once he cried himself out in Draco’s arms, he wasn’t sure he would want one… even if it were possible. 

He sits down on the piano bench and drops his face into his hands. 

It’s not the baby he doesn’t want… though as much as he’s decided that he strongly dislikes Healer Mitchell, Harry thinks he’s correct—he is far too young to start a family… but rather the idea that _once again_ all his choices have been ripped from him. 

All of them… 

He doesn’t know who snapped his picture and what they might have heard, but he can no longer pretend to be out of the country. His relationship with Draco is public knowledge. He might not even have the luxury of announcing his own damn pregnancy. 

_Fuck._

Isolde is watching him from the back of the chair she’s claimed as her own. 

“Will you carry a letter for me?” he asks.

She stares haughtily down at him before blinking twice and letting out a low hoot. Harry decides that is a _yes_ … and finds a scrap of paper and a pen with ink.

_Ron,_  
_I’m fine. I think I ran into a Daily Prophet reporter today. I don’t know if there will be a story, or what it might say, and I don’t care. But I need you to believe that I’m fine. I need you to believe that I still need my space._  
_I can’t come to Christmas at the Burrow. But can you and Hermione come for lunch on Boxing Day?_  
_Harry_

~

_Mate, I saw the papers and it’s really hard for me to believe that you’re fine. But I’m trying. I really am. Of course we’ll come for lunch. You’ll have to say where, though._  
 _Hermione sends her love._  
 _Ron_

~

_I’ll let you know._  
 _Harry_

**Author's Note:**

> I love questions, comments, concerns, and constructive criticism -- and, of course, kudos! <333


End file.
